Nineteen
by UnsuaveOffTheMattress
Summary: Dean is nineteen when he crashes the car. Hurt!Dean, Angst, Strong Language, Periodic Wee!Chesters. VERY IMPORTANT - ENDING CHANGED AS OF AUGUST 16, 2013
1. Chapter 1

It's a new month, so I figured new fic and this is what came out of it. I hope you like, and even if you don't like you're still amazing for clicking on this.

xx

I

He's on day two of a heavy flu, lying in bed surrounded by boxes of tissues and thick plastic bottles of liquid medication. His fever has reached 103, and refuses to go down no matter how much ice Sam puts on him. Or, put on him before leaving for school.  
A phone rings across the room, and John is slow to pick it up, slow enough that it breaks through Dean's heavy, over the counter induced sedation. "Hello?"  
Dean shakes the heavy blankets off his shoulders and pushes himself up off the pillows, causing plastic bags of lukewarm water to fall down onto the mattress under him.  
"Now?" John asks, and Dean looks over at the clock—1:30 PM. "Can his brother come get him?"  
Dean sighs, knowing that means Sammy's in trouble again and he has to go down to the school to get him again.  
Again.  
"Yeah, he'll be right there." The phone is hung up, and without bothering to turn around, John says, "go get your brother."  
Dean sits up sleepily, squinting at the streaks of light pouring in through the curtains. "Why?" He asks. "What'd he do this time?"  
"Ask him when you get there."  
"That helps." rubbing his eyes, Dean pushes himself to stand, only to be overwhelmed with a physically sick feeling. He throws himself onto the washroom floor, and what comes up is cough syrup—so much cough syrup. His sides pull tight, and he takes the freezing counter with a death grip.  
"But get there today, that's kind of important, Dean."  
He collapses back against the wall and wraps his arms tight around himself. "Can you go get him?" Dean asks, sounding like a little kid.  
"No, you've been in bed all day."  
"Yeah, but-"  
"Go get your brother."  
With a heavy groan, Dean pushes himself up. He takes a piece of the gum Sam left him on the counter, and stumbles a bit taking the keys of what, who, he's sure will soon be his.  
"Don't get sick in my car." John says, to which Dean rolls his eyes.  
"No promises."

Dean lies in this big and creaky bed, held still by heavy plastic and covered in sticky bright red fluid from head to toe. There's a general soreness all over him, shock muting both the pain he should be feeling and the accident he should remember. He's overwhelmed with fear and confusion, so when, finally, after hours of staring silently at a water damaged ceiling, his father pulls open the curtain and stands beside him, he feels more relief than he ever felt possible. He can feel the terror starting to recede, but just as he's about to sigh and let the rest of it fade, John starts in.  
"What happened?" He asks harshly.  
The fear starts to creep back up, and in a tiny, faded voice, Dean returns with an unfortunately honest, "I don't know."  
"I think you do." John argues.  
"I honestly don't-" he breathes in sharply as a hand takes his tight.  
"What did you do to my car?"  
Overwhelmed, then, by twice as much agony and horror as before, he stammers a forced, "I'm sorry, I just-"  
"Don't lie to me!"  
"I'm not!"  
"Dean!"  
"I'm not lying! I don't know!"  
And with that, John turns away, his expression light years beyond anger.  
"I'm sorry," Dean tries. "Really, I'm-"  
"What about your brother?"  
Dean falls silent.  
"He was waiting for you."  
"Oh my god."  
"Do you know how cold it is out there?"  
He doesn't answer.  
"Oh, that's right, you do, because that's how you got so sick."  
"Dad," he interrupts through tears starting down his face. "Please-"  
"Do you want him to get sick too?"  
"Dad-"  
"'Cause you know I'm not gonna be the one taking care of him, right?"  
Dean puts a hand over his face; the sticky bright red on his palm then infuses with saltwater.  
"Right, Dean?!" John throws his older son's hand aside and takes a tight hold of his shoulders, pressing down on near black bruises.  
"Dad-"  
"Answer me, Dean!"  
"I can't!" He sobs, shaking because everything, literally every single part of his body is killing him. It's like every muscle is cramping at once—every single one.  
"You can't?" John demands. "What do you mean you can't?"  
"Oh my god!" They both look towards the door, finding a beyond mortified fifteen year old. "What's going on?"  
John pulls his hands back, and Dean looks down, too plagued with guilt to so much as think about his brother—let alone see the horror on his face.  
"Nothing," John says. "He just fucked up."  
Xx

yeah, this is my first time writing them at this age and so far it's really fun so I hope you liked it.


	2. Chapter 2

Wow, you guys are so supportive!

Prepare yourselves for this. It's about to get real.

Really real.

xx

II

"Just close your eyes and count backwards from ten."  
His bruised, puffy hands start to go numb, all the weight of guilt and all the horrendous pain of having limbs snapped at least twice washing away. The bright green of his eyes starts to dull, and near vibrant purple-splotched eyelids start to grow heavy. His counting starts to get slower, and before his mind can get to six, he's completely out.  
A heavy curtain is pulled over his shoulders, he's stripped down, and blindingly bright lights pour over him. And so begins the extremely messy and fragile process of stitching, cutting, and driving thick metal into openly comminuted fractures. Needless to say, he'd rather be anywhere else.

Sam sits anxiously in the cold, big, and empty room, holding his brother's jacket tight and silently begging whatever he presumes to be out there to get his brother out of this, and to get him out of this alive. He's mortified of something going wrong, literally shaking at the thought, which is strange because he's been in the situation a million times. He's seen his brother beat up a million times, and he's seen bones get reset a million times. He's seen his father mad a million times and he's definitely seen an emergency room a million times-no, more like a billion times.  
He's seen it a million times-all of it, but he's somehow convinced himself that he's never seen it this bad, which is true, in a sense, considering that, yes, he's seen his brother get his bones reset a million times, but he's never seen multiple bones get reset at once. An arm, he's seen. A leg, he's seen, but an arm and a leg at the same time, with no sedation no warning, and no mercy, he hasn't seen. He's seen broken ribs before, but never ones as bad as his brother's right now, just as he's seen head trauma before, many, many times before, but he's never seen it so bad that the victim, in this case _his brother_ couldn't talk for more than a few sentences and couldn't remember more than a few minutes beforehand He's asked a million times what happened, how it got this bad, but Dean can never seem to remember fully. He remembers leaving the motel, getting onto a dingy and leafy back road, and then nothing. It's all just gone. Everything but the very present since then is gone-_completely gone._

John left a while back, before all the screaming and before all the snapping, and when he did he claimed to have better things to do. Sam argued, but Dean was too consumed in begging for painkillers to say anything to his father. They never gave him anything, telling him over and over that they'd sedate him once the fever went down. "A few minutes." They said. "Just a few minutes."

A few minutes became an hour, and then two hours, and then, once he gave up pushing for drugs, they motioned for Sam to take his hand, left, the one that wasn't shattered into a million little pieces, and reset everything without a word. There was no warning, no counting to three, and no explanation as to why there was no warning or counting to three. Then they rejoiced limitedly, telling that it was time to put him under. There wasn't much explanation there either, but there was a heavy dose of anesthetic, and that was enough.

The door opens, and Sam looks up.

"Where is he?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Not here."

"I'm serious."

"Me too."

"Where is he?"

"Surgery,"

"What for?"

Sam gives a look in return as if to suggest how clueless his father is. "You're kidding."

"No," John says. "What are they doing to him?"

Sam gives a half shrug. "I dunno."

"They didn't tell you?"

"No," he returns. "They told him, but they-"

"Why'd they tell him?"

"He had to consent."

"He can't consent like that."

"He's over eighteen."

"Yeah, but he still can't-"

"He just did."

An awkward silence falls about the two of them, and as John sits down in one of the thick plastic chairs beside Sam, the air is polluted with heavy tension, borderline hatred for one another.

"Did he tell you anything about what happened?" John asks this uncomfortably, and Sam shrugs in response.

"He said it's too fuzzy to remember."

"Of course he did."

"They said he should remember in a few days. He hit his head pretty hard."

"Or he's just not telling you."

"Dad-"

"Which I mean, is understandable. Kid throws a bitch fit, tries to make people feel bad for him. It's a fine plan, he's just not that good an actor."

"Can't you just give him a break?" Sam asks. "Accident or not, he's stuck here, and the least you can do is wait until he remembers his own name without help to get on him about this."

"If he can't remember his name, how'd he consent?"

"Just let him get a little better." Sam's pulling those big eyes, tearing up without much effort. "He doesn't need this right now."

"Then what does he need, Sam?"

"Some NyQuil, for starters."

"He's already on it."

"Then I dunno, just something to make him feel better.

"Like?"

"How should I know?"

"Well you know he's not faking, so shouldn't you know how to fix it?"

Sam shrugs, fiddling with the zippers of Dean's jacket.

"You're gonna get sick if you keep touching that."

Sam says he doesn't care, and then glances up at the clock mounted on the wall. "It's getting late." He yawns.

"It's not that late, Sam."

He pulls his knees close and stretches his arms forward, his sleeves coming up slightly. "It's been a long-"

John abruptly takes hold of Sam's arm, pushing up the cotton of his sleeve up to his elbow. Cuts line his forearm, and then, as John takes the other arm, are found up and down both of them. They're all deep enough to leave a decent mark, but shallow enough to be covered with only a band-aid if anything. Some are older than others. Some are worse than others. Some are slanted, others straight, but all consistent, and no more than a week or two old.

"Sam,"

He sighs and puts his head down on his knees.

"Sam!"

He doesn't look up. He doesn't do anything.

"I can't believe you, Sam!"

He pulls back and wraps his arms tight around himself. "It's nothing." He finally argues.

"It looks like something, Sam!"

"It's nothing." He repeats. "Don't worry about it."

"You're crazy." John says, his tone laced with a taunting inflection. It's the same tone Sam's been hearing everyday, from the kids he goes to school with. It's the same tone that's gotten him into trouble, and it's the same tone that made Dean have to come get him, that caused all of this. "You're crazy and you're pathetic."

Sam looks back up at the clock, though he knows the time hasn't changed more than a minute or two.

"What's your brother gonna think?"

"Nothing,"

"You think he wants to know that you're trying to kill yourself right now?"

"I'm not trying to kill myself, dad."

"Then what are you trying to do, Sam?"

"I dunno," he sarcastically says. "Trying to get through this?"

"Get through what?"

"School," he says. "All the teasing and bullying and-"

"What are you talking about?"

"The reason he had to come get me today! And yesterday, and the day before that!"

"Sam-"

"See, dad, that's the problem with you! You never listen to anyone!"

"Sam, I've had enough to deal with today to remember all your little problems!"

"Well, they're not little if I'm trying to kill myself over them, are they?"

"You shut your mouth, Sam!"

"Make me!"

John throws him to the floor and keeps him there, pushing down hard on his small frame. "That's your problem, Sam." He says. "You never get along with anyone."

Xx

This took up all of my sticky notes.

I hope you're happy.


	3. Chapter 3

Way to blow my mind, you guys!

III.

Thin streaks of orange light sneak in through the blinds, hitting Sam at the perfect angle as he leans over the bedrail, his fingers gently gracing his brother's arm. He got back a few hours ago, and it took Sam a total of six seconds to pull a chair across the room and collapse beside him an emotionally jaded mess. It wasn't, isn't, the most comfortable position, but it's better than the floor, where he stayed too guilty to get up for at least an hour. No one asked, because everyone heard, and no one offered to help, because everyone knew that they wouldn't be able to help no matter what they did. So he just stayed there, laying on the floor a mess until his brother came back.

The light is enough to bring him around, and there's a faint wave of relief as he looks up to find Dean still asleep. He doesn't look good, decent, any variation of okay, but he looks better, and that's something. There's less swelling though there's still a more than decent amount, and as for bruising, the same can't be said. That's worse, but he looks half human, and that's all that really matters. Sam gently untangles his hand from all the wires and tubes and pushes himself to stand up. He looks across the room and finds his book bag still next to the door. He takes it from the floor and puts it on his shoulder, then looks briefly across the room at his brother and starts down the near vacant hallway, looking for somewhere, anywhere, that he can be alone for a few seconds to get done what he feels he has to.

He finds a washroom, one in which he locks himself into before leafing through the pockets of his bag for some relief—some sharp yet sweet relief.

"So how bad is it anyway?" Sam asks, sitting beside his brother atop the creaky mattress. "Like, you're not dying, are you?"

Dean smiles a little. "I'm not dying." He says, to which Sam smiles back. "But I'm not moving all that much."

"That's okay," he studies Dean briefly, deciding that he looks like a cracked china doll. "I'll keep him a hundred yards away."

Dean notices the bruises on Sam's cheekbones, and his fingers lightly brush against those on his right cheek through wires and bandages and tubes. "Did he do that?"

Sam shakes his head, gently pushing back the swollen hand. "That was at school." He says. "Dad didn't leave a mark this time."

"This time?"

He nods looking down.

"You mean this is a regular thing with him now?"

"Yeah,"

"Since when?"

Sam looks away uncomfortably, and then responds in a tiny voice, "Last March."

"This has been going on for over a year and you're just now telling me?"

He shrugs again.

"And school too? What are they doing to you there?"

"Nothing,"

"Nothing?"

"No, Dean, they're not doing anything?"

"That's why you're…"

Sam shifts awkwardly, pulling his sleeves down over his hands. "He knows."

Dean nods, deeming it inevitable. "What'd he say?"  
Sam keeps his head down, tears stinging in his eyes.  
"What?" Sympathy lines Dean's voice, and he puts his one hand on his brother's shoulder. "Sammy, what'd he say?"  
"He said what everyone says, Dean." His voice shakes, and Dean can tell that he's about to completely lose it. "He called me crazy, and pathetic, and-" he quickly looks down, covering his mouth. Dean's hand slowly moves down, pushing up Sam's sleeve.  
"Oh, no," he says, near baffled at all the bright red hidden by black fabric. "No, Sammy, you promised you'd stop."  
"I'm sorry," his voice is near gone, his vocal chords smothered by sheer negative emotion. He's shaking, his shoulders and fingers quivering aggressively. Something's wrong, he did something horribly wrong, and they both know it. "I'm so sorry."  
"It's okay," Dean lets go of Sam's hand and takes the box of tissues from beside him. "Here,"  
Sam takes one, covering his face with his hands. He's fully broken down, so scared and upset and angry that he can't hold it together.  
"Why'd you do it, though?"  
He sobs hard in return. "Because I'm crazy." He says. "Because I'm pathetic, and I can't stand up for myself and because I got you into this."  
"No," Dean takes one of Sam's hands and pulls it down. He looks so desperate, shattered, and then Dean decides that what he's feeling isn't half as bad as what his brother is feeling. "Sammy, this isn't your fault, none of it is."  
"Of course this is my fault!" He argues. "None of this would have happened if I'd just stood up for myself!"  
"Sammy-"  
"This is all my fault because I'm a wimp and I'm too scared to say anything when someone starts something!" He looks down at where Dean's hand holds his, seeing all the new, worse cuts and how close they were to working. "I'm even too much of a wimp to do it; how sad is that?"  
Dean pulls his brother down onto his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as he can with one arm. "Don't talk like that." He says, he too verging on tears. "Don't you ever talk like that, please."  
He starts to push back, but Dean holds him tighter.  
"And don't you dare try to leave me right now, Sam, not after that."  
And then tears start down Dean's cheeks too.  
"You're so perfect." He says. "And strong, and sweet, and funny, and I don't understand how anyone could be so horrible to you."  
Thick saltwater starts to dampen Dean's shoulder, and he squeezes a little tighter.  
"And I don't understand how you could ever believe them."

Xx


	4. Chapter 4

So yeah, this chapter is kind of a weak link like the last one but it gets better, I promise so don't lose hope on me!

Xx

IV

"Dean," he sobs, throwing himself onto the bed and taking Dean's arm tight. "Dean, you need to wake up." His voice is nothing more than sheer hysteria, panic, terror, and his grip is the same, like he's holding on for dear life. "Dean, talk to me!" he tugs at Dean's arm, his fingers warm and sticky as they hold tighter. "Please, talk to-"

"Hey," Dean whispers loudly. "Sammy, calm down." He tries to be comforting, but his voice shakes. It's like the fear is contagious. Dean sits up, too high on negative adrenaline to feel anything. "It's okay."

Sam shakes his head. "No," he sobs. "No, it's not okay."

"It's okay," Dean repeats. "You're okay, just calm down."

"I can't calm down right now!" He reaches over and throws on the bedside table lamp. The near pitch room floods with faint amber light. "Look at this!"

Dean pulls his hand back as quickly as he can with a gasp, seeing that Sam's are dripping with bright red, just are his arms, all the way up to his elbows. "Oh my god." He chokes.

"This isn't okay!"

"What did you do?" He's verging on yelling, completely indifferent to anyone hearing him. "Oh my god, Sam, what did you do?"

"I didn't mean to!"

"Sam-"

"I swear on my life, I didn't mean to, just help me!"

"What do you-"

"Help me!" he shrieks.

Dean jolts awake, squinting at the bright light of monitors shining down on him like spotlights and shuddering slightly at the heavy sound of the mattress creaking under him. He breathes heavy, his chest congested and puffy as ever. He holds his breath and pushes himself to sit up, looking across the room as quickly as he can. Terror shoots through him—he's alone.

"Sammy?" he shakily questions nonetheless, trying to convince himself that he's just not seeing his little brother. "S-Sammy?"

The door opens, and near blinding light pours in. "Dean?"

"Dad," he breathes, his voice barely there at all. "Where's Sammy?"

John gives Dean this somewhat questioning look. "He's getting some sleep." John says. "He'll be back in the morning."

"Go get him." Dean says quickly, panicked. "You shouldn't leave him alone. Go get him."

"He can stay on his own, Dean."

"Go get him." This comes out as more of a sob, and after it does, they both stare at each other for a good thirty seconds.

John breaks the awkward silence, studying his son's near bleached white features. "Why?"

"I need him here."

"He'll be back in a few hours."

"Yeah, but-"

"Until then, I need to talk to you."

Dean inches away slightly as his father gets closer. It feels like forever since they've talked, but given what happened the last time, Dean's willing to extend that a little further. "About what?" he asks.

"About what's going on." John returns. "I'm not gonna yell at you. I just need to talk to you."

He nods slightly, and as he lies back upon his father pushing him to, he decides that he's too shaken up to argue.

"Here," John pulls up the thin, navy-spotted fabric slipping down off Dean's shoulder, covering the exposed wires and monitors and tubes because he's got some complex, some completely obscure and ironic 'if I can't see it then it's not there' complex with this entire situation. "Don't need you getting cold."

Dean raises his eyebrows, seeing right through the act, concluding that this doesn't have a thing to do with him being cold, and it's all about his father not wanting to see any intricate monitors or excess bruises. He plays along nonetheless. "Thanks." It falls silent again until Dean coughs, and the sound against cracked ribs is more nightmarish than either of them could have possibly imagined. He puts a hand up to his chest.

"You okay?" John asks, to which Dean smiles a little.

"Define 'okay',"

"Like, you're not dying, are you?"

He doesn't answer, looking up at the clock.

"I'll take that as a no, then."

"So what did you wanna talk about anyway?"

"About what's going-"

"Going on with whom, though?" Dean interrupts, his tone slightly bitter. "Going on with me? Going on with Sam?"

"With you, for starters."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "What do you wanna know?"

"Well, I wanna know what happened for starters."

He pauses.

"Assuming it's come back to you by now."

"By now?" Dean asks. "It's been thirty-six hours."

"Has it come back to you, though?"

He averts his gaze to his hands—hand—whose fingers twist into the sheets.

"Dean?"

"It has." He says quietly, his attitude plummeting.

"So what happened?"

Dean shakes his head slightly. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Too bad," John sits in the chair Sam has kept by the bed and leans over onto the bedrail. "Tell me what happened."

Xx

Help, I've fallen and I can't get up.


	5. Chapter 5

Aah! I know, I didn't post yesterday, but I'm posting again later today to make up for it, so look out for that and enjoy!

Xx

V.

It was a two-lane road, one with twists and turns and almost a canopy of trees. His vision blurred, and somewhat skipped at times, and it bordered on startling through he knew it was just a fevered and half conscious mind playing tricks on him. The radio was silent for once, the only sound being the low grumble of the engine. It was melodic, and he focused more on the sound than what was in front of him, too caught up in a sense of warmth, of comfort, of nostalgia. It was sweet, soothing, and before he knew it, his hands were slipping, just like his consciousness, and then, before he could even process the movement, the car was on its side and he, negligent to wear a seatbelt as always, found himself lying face down across the passenger window, pieces of glass stuck all over him and pieces of bone sticking all out of him, especially about the right side. No—only on the right side.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself to turn over, too hopped up on shock to feel anything. The heavy metallic taste of blood settled on his lips, and as he looked down he saw bright red gushing from all over. The reality of it went way over his head, but as he started to sit up, he felt it. Breathing heavy, he put his left hand over his mouth to keep from losing what little composure he still had. He shook to say the least, more terrified of how abruptly his mood changed than of what just happened. Nothing hurt specifically, it was more of a wave, a general feeling of, 'oh my god, I think I'm dying'. He looked up, seeing the shattered glass and bent metal above him, and then the 'I think I'm dying' part was replaced with, 'he's going to kill me'.

"I saw the damage, by the way." John says, trying without much success to lighten the mood. "On the car."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, his voice shaking a bit at the thought. "How is she?"

John smiles a little. "Not too bad." He says. "She'll be better before you are."

Dean reluctantly nods. "I think world hunger will be better before me."

John nods too, and it's awkwardly quiet for a few seconds before something comes to Dean's mind.

"Did you get everything out of the trunk?" He asks. "Like, all the suspicious things?"

"Yeah," John says, studying the heavily bleached and eerily dim room. "They're back with Sammy."

Dean's eyes widen slightly. "With Sammy?" He asks. "Like, alone with Sammy?"

They both pause.

"Give me the phone," Dean says, motioning towards the table off to his right. "I'm gonna call him, give me-"

"He's fine."

"And what if he's not?"

"He is."

"Dad," his voice shakes, as do his fingers. "Please let me call him."

John rolls his eyes and hands Dean the phone, giving into those big, sad eyes. He watches as Dean dials. "Dean," he starts, to which he glances up. "Why haven't they put casts on you?"

"I dunno," he whispers, glancing down at his right arm.

"Do you think they're going more work on you?"

"I don't – Sammy?"

They both fall silent for a good thirty seconds.

"Sammy?" he repeats. "You okay?"

John watches Dean's expression fall to sheer terror.

"Uh," he stutters, looking up at his father. "What was it?" he pauses. "No, Sammy, what did it look like?" he pauses again, and his fever-flushed cheeks lose all color. "Go," he mouths to John. "Go get him."

John takes the phone. "Sam?"

Dean coughs into the bend of his arm, and it's worse than before. He, honestly, didn't think that was possible. Rightly, Dean closes his eyes, and John puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Okay," he says, to which Dean looks up. "Okay, just talk to your brother." He reaches for the phone. "I'll be there soon."

Xx

so much fun, this fic.


	6. Chapter 6

It's baaaaaack.

VI.

They're staying close, suspiciously close, like, 'I booked us here because I knew something was gonna happen' close, so it's a short walking distance—running distance. It's dark still, only being about three-thirty, so an unnecessary element of suspicion is brought forth as John throws himself up three dingy flights of mildewed stairs. There are a few flickering lights, just enough to illuminate the numbers on the heavy wooden doors.  
310  
No.  
311  
No.  
312  
No.  
313  
He throws the door open. "Sammy!"  
The only light comes from the half open washroom door, and while there's nothing out of sorts defiantly, there are a few handprints on the doorknob, and the red of them is enough to send him into a web of borderline hysteria. He pauses, though, hearing a faint mumbling. It's Sam's voice, but it's incoherent, slurred, like he's completely slammed. John pushes the door open gently and Sam turns to him with big and glassy and bloodshot eyes. His hands are bright red, and near carelessly give up the phone as John takes it. "Dean," he says, holding the sticky receiver. "I've got him."  
He's stripped from the waist up, his thin and pale shoulders wet from a near drenched mop of light brown waves. His cheeks are flushed, and though he shivers, his skin in obscurely hot as John puts a hand to it. "Sammy," John sighs, putting the phone down on the counter. "Didn't I tell you'd get sick?"  
He's got a fever, a decent one, and it's normal for him to sleepwalk when his temperature gets above a hundred, so that's one thing cleared up, but it's not everything.  
"What's this?" John asks, taking Sam's arms.  
"They were itching." Sam says, his voice dull and almost robotic.  
"They were getting better, Sammy."  
He turns around. "I took a shower."  
"Why?"  
Sam pauses, and then slowly turns back around. "I dunno."  
John nods and pulls Sam to the sink, running the water until it gets warm. "C'mere," he says, putting Sam's arms under it. Sam watches as the red pours down the drain, borderline mesmerized at the sight of it. "It's not that bad." John takes a hand towel, dries off Sam's arms, and pulls him along to sit him down on the edge of one of the creaky beds. "Stay here."  
Sam averts his gaze to his hands.  
"Dean mentioned you taking something." John starts, leading through a bag on the bleach-splotched carpet next to the bed. "What did he mean by that?"  
Sam coughs in return, and the sound is refreshing compared to his brother. "I dunno."  
"Did you take anything?"  
He shakes his head.  
"Promise?"  
"I promise."  
John smiles slightly, pulling the wrappers off of two band-aids.  
Sam rubs his eyes once they're stuck on, looking like he did ten years ago.  
"Tired?"  
Sam nods, lying down atop the sheets.  
"No," John says. "Sit up."  
"I'm tired," he whines.  
"I know," John pulls a plastic bottle with dark blue liquid from that same bag. "But you need some-"  
"Sleep," Sam interrupts, something he wouldn't do were he fully conscious. "I need some sleep."  
"Here," John hands Sam a plastic spoon with the sticky fluid and smiles as he chokes it down. "It's good, isn't it?"  
Sam shakes his head. "No," he hands the spoon back and lies down, facing the wall. "I'd rather be dead."  
"Okay, drama queen."  
Sam reaches over and takes his brother's jacket from the other end of the mattress, squeezing it tight.  
The faint smile John had fades. "You miss him?"  
Sam nods. "Is he okay?"  
John pauses, and in that pause, Sam turns over and looks up at him with those same big eyes that Dean used to get the phone. "Honestly," John says. "I don't know."

Xx

Bam! Wow, that was a bitch to type up. You're worth it, though.  
Thanks for all the support!


	7. Chapter 7

Wow, I put this up this morning but it didn't work for some reason! I'm so sorry!

Xx

VII

The phone rings, blaring from the washroom counter. Sam looks up, the light soaking his pillow near blinding. He somehow got under the covers, and finds himself now wrapped up so tight that he can barely move. He wiggles out of the fabric, and his feet, as they hit the cold, scratchy carpet, are sore. Sam makes his way slowly to the obnoxious ringing, and when he finds the dried red on the phone, fear shoots through him. He thinks about it briefly, and holds the phone away from himself just enough so that he can still hear. "Hello?" he asks, his voice close to gone and his throat horrendous.

"Sammy?" a voice that sounds almost the same starts. It's almost unrecognizable. _Almost_.

He smiles. "Hey,"

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

His smile falls. "What?"

"Sam, what happened? You scared me half to death!"

"Dean, I don't," he looks down at the counter, and at the bright red towels on the floor. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" he asks, his dull voice laced with panic.

The door opens, and Sam turns around, finding his father there. The air seeping in from the heavy door is chill, and to him, still only half clothed and still decently fevered, it's subarctic.

"Sammy?" John asks, having a tinge of fear about him so foreign. "You okay?"

Sam's eyebrows fix in a questioning expression. "Yeah," he says with a touch of inquiry.

"What?" Dean asks from the phone.

"What?" Sam repeats, snapping back into his other conversation. He can hear Dean roll his eyes.

"Where's dad?"

Sam coughs slightly. "Right here." He says. "Why?"

He pauses. "Because I need to talk to him, dumb ass."

A bout of dejection dashes through him though he knows Dean isn't really angry with him—he's just tired, sick, stressed, hurting, all those negative emotions put into one scared, broken boy. He's like a china doll, in a sense, Dean is, a china doll with porcelain skin and rosy cheeks that fell on the hardwood and shattered completely. Sam thinks about it briefly, and then John takes the phone, pushing him aside gently. "Hey," John starts, and Sam drags his feet as he crosses back to the bed.

Sam climbs under the covers, his head pounding, his stomach in knots, his muscles aching, and, mostly, his arms stinging. He feels how tender the skin is as his left hand gently presses against his chest, and then it starts to fit together. He sees the thermometer still on the bedside table from Dean's using it the other day and takes it, unable to care less about the germs seeing as he's already got them. He puts it in his mouth and decides that it tastes like NyQuil, a taste already present though fading on his tongue. It's NyQuil from that same bottle he gave to Dean before the impala fiasco, and it probably comes from the dose that caused it all, and now it's kind of taunting, like the taste is laughing at him. "Hey," it teases. "Remember how you got him into this?"

He almost bails out, but then the thermometer beeps, and through sleepy eyes he makes out 100.1 degrees Fahrenheit. It isn't too bad, but it's enough to wear his body out and, more importantly, shake up his subconscious. He's inferred now about the sleepwalking, knowing that it's normal and just one of his quirks. It's a dangerous quirk, but a quirk nonetheless, and when he's honest with himself it comes as no surprise because he always seems to catch what ever Dean has, and catch it worse, though the same doesn't happen vice versa. Sam gets sick, Dean is fine, but Dean gets sick and Sam has it within five days, only twice as bad with side effects and complications to no end. It's strange, but it's normal, and Sam has better things to dwell on, so he puts it on the back burner for the moment and focuses on the one-sided conversation going on across the room.

"You're kidding," John says, followed by an exasperated sigh. "Oh my god, Dean."

Sam pushes himself up slightly, unsure whether something is legitimately wrong or his father is just being dramatic.

John puts a hand to his chin, running his fingers about his jaw line. "You're a mess." He says, somewhere between terrified and pissed off. "You know that? You're a hot mess." He pauses, and Dean says something on the other end. "Fine," John continues. "Sure, yeah, we'll be right there." He looks over at Sam, who has a watered down and sick fear about his flushed features. "Twenty minutes." He then hangs up and sets the phone back down on the linoleum counter before studying Sam. He looks miserable, Sam does, utterly miserable, like he's about to drop dead with those glazed over eyes and shaking hands. It's near heartbreaking when he attempts to put himself in Sam's shoes, as the past five hours of half-conscious mumbling said more than Sam would ever consciously dream of saying. But more on that later. John has better things to dwell on. "Get up," he says, his voice not half as strong as it was twenty-four hours ago. "Your brother needs you."

Xx

thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

So I hope this chapter posts because I lost my mind when chapter seven didn't.

Enjoy!

VIII

The room is bright white, everything seeming to be bleached over and over. It's a different room than before, a little bigger, with more intimidating monitors and emergency equipment. Now that Sam looks a little closer, the only thing that isn't white is near black, and it isn't really a _thing_ at all.

It's _skin._

And it belongs to what seems like little more than a _zombie_.

"Hey, Sammy," This sickeningly white, faded, lazy red, and ink black zombie starts in a voice that's little more than a whisper. He sounds sick, like every word hurts more than he can tolerate, but at the same time, he sounds happy, and honestly, he looks pretty happy too—for a zombie, that is.

Sam offers a half smile, feeling like a scared little kid. "Hi," He's been gone for a few hours, maybe twelve at most, and this is what he comes back to? He wants to ask what happened, but at the same time, he doesn't want anything to do with this.

"C'mere," Dean says. "Talk to me."

Awkwardly, Sam inches closer, still only a foot or so from the doorway. "About what?" he asks.

"Anything," It's a breezy tone, one that comes with a sleepy, drugged smile.

"Anything?" Sam asks, realizing that what ever Dean is on, it's strong, and it wasn't there on the phone ten minutes ago.

"Yeah,"

"Mkay," He thinks hard about something to talk about that isn't the near pitch black skin snaking like a sleeve from Dean's right elbow all the way over to half his ribcage, but it's hard not to look at, and hard not to talk about. "What happened there?" he asks, to which Dean looks down.

"I dunno," he says. "All they'll tell me is that it's really, really bad and I could die from it."

Sam's eyes get a little bigger.

"Yeah," Dean continues. "I could _die_ in the next few days."

"Are you serious?" Sam asks, to which Dean smiles.

"No," he laughs, his voice still so sweet and carefree despite the situation. "It's just a reaction to the pins or something. It'll be gone in a few days."

Sam nods awkwardly, confused. "Okay,"

"But," his smile fades and his glazed over, fevered eyes get big. "It's making everything worse."

"What's it making worse?"

Dean doesn't answer, his eyes fixed blankly on his brother in a nightmarish and expressionless manner.

Sam takes a half step back. "Dean?" he asks.

No response—just that blank stare.

"Are you okay?"

Nothing.

"I'm gonna go get someone, okay?"

Abruptly, Dean pushes himself to sit up, tugging on wires and agitating bruises as he does. Sam grips the doorframe tight, terror washing over him in a hot and numbing wave. He doesn't know whether he should run out the door towards medical professionals to get help or run towards his brother to be the help. He doesn't know, so he just stands there, watching in horror as bright red starts to cascade from Dean's lips down onto his legs. It drips onto the sheets and then onto his left hand, which grips the bedrail tight as he turns to Sam. "Sammy," he manages in sheer desperation. "Go."

Xx

Yeah, so hopefully someone's actually able to read this because it's about to get real…

AGAIN.


	9. Chapter 9

I wrote this chapter like six times before getting it right so I hope this is okay.

Enjoy if you wanna.

Xx

IX

"Sammy!"

He jolts awake, his skin pale and sticky, causing the sheets to cling. He looks up to find himself still in room 313, lying atop that creaky mattress hazy and drugged and aching all over.

"You okay?" It's not his brother's voice—it's his father's, and he's across the room, standing at the door, watching with this worried expression that Sam hasn't seen on him in years.

He nods breathlessly, his arms shaking as they hold him up. "Where's Dean?"

John pauses, giving Sam a look as if he's completely insane. "Where do you think?

"No," Sam stutters. "Like, is he okay?"

John sighs. "No,"  
Sam's expression falls, his glassy and fevered eyes casting downward.  
"He got a lot worse overnight."  
"A lot?" Sam asks. "How bad is it?"  
There's an awkward pause in which John decides which response he's been preparing would be the least traumatic. "It's a skin reaction, an allergy, so they have to take out all the pins, let it heal up, and start over."  
Terror overwhelms him. He literally just saw this.  
"But don't worry," John continues. "He's a tough kid. He'll be fine."  
"Are you sure about that?" Sam asks. "Are you really sure about that? Because, y'know, maybe he's not as tough as you think he is."  
"What?"  
"Maybe he needs a few seconds to process everything before you start in on him about how he fucked up."  
"Sam-"  
"I've seen what you do to him, dad! And how you talk to him, and how you treat him and he doesn't deserve that!"  
Another awkward pause falls about. "Sam-"  
"And sure, he's strong, but no matter how strong he is he's not strong enough to take what you do to him!"

"Sam," he sounds surprisingly calm, especially for the way that Sam is talking to him. "Go take something."

"Why?" Sam snaps back.

"Because you're sick and bitter and I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"To see your brother."

"Can I come?"

"No,"

Sam pauses. "What?"

"You're sick, Sam."

"He won't catch it." Sam argues. "He's already had it, and-"

"You're staying here."

"Remember how that worked out yesterday?" He asks. "You don't want me to do this again, do you?"

He rolls his eyes. "Sam-"

"Oh right," He says. "You don't care!"

"Fine!" John returns. "You can go, but if you complain at all-"

"I won't."

Sammy knocks sheepishly on the heavy door, his eyes big and his knees shaking. His thick dirty blonde hair falls down over his eyes, and as John takes the door, he pulls his hand back to clear his sights. The room is dim, the curtains pulled over the windows and the lights all switched off. It's cold, and the harsh white walls don't help, making the already big and intimidating room that much more unwelcoming to a nervous and confused five year old. He keeps his hands close to his mouth as he's gently nudged from the doorway, too scared to say anything no matter how his father pushes.

"Go on," John says, trying to be as comforting as he can through the tremendous stress of two sick little ones—one almost too sick to sick to function and the other slowly but surely getting there. "Talk to him, he won't hurt you."

Sammy rubs his eyes as he shakes his head. "I don' think he wanna talk." He says in a sleepy speech slightly slurred with cough syrup. It's sad, but at the same time it, like almost every other thing the kid does, is sweet, and almost lethally so. "I think he too tired, daddy."

"No, Sammy," John pushes him towards the center of the room where atop a big and creaky bed lies a tiny and sick excuse for Sammy's big brother. "He's fine, just go talk to him."

He coughs and puts his hands fully over his eyes, so shy and scared, so unlike himself. "I think you should do it."

They're quiet, but after only a few seconds of looking at him, John rolls his eyes. "I'll wake him up," he sighs. "But you have to talk to him, okay?"

Sammy nods. "Okay,"

John puts a hand on Dean's arm as gently as he can, shaking him softly. "Hey," he whispers, to which Dean stirs a little. "Dean, you need to wake up."

"Hm?" Dean asks, to which Sammy peaks through his fingers to find him blinking owlishly up at their father.

"You need to wake up." John repeats, his voice some hybrid of scared and sweet and protective that's beyond foreign to all three of them.

Dean yawns, and then asks a sleepy, "Why?"

"'Cause," John motions across the room. "Someone's here to see you."

Xx

Oh yess the little little ones make me feel so warm and fuzzy.


	10. Chapter 10

I just broke my own heart so please forgive me if I break yours.

Xx

X

But that was ten years ago. Ten years ago Dean smiled and reached out to his brother. "Sammy," he sighed in relief, taking him up into his arms as John lifted him. Sammy held tightly onto him, burying his head in his brother's shoulder.

"Dea," Sammy smiled and squeezed his brother tight. "I was so worried about you, Dea."

They stayed up all night, talked, and eventually fell asleep on that otherwise unpleasant bed in the children's pediatric ward. Then they left the next morning. It took Dean only a few days to get better, and Sam followed about twenty-four hours after that. It was short, it was sweet, and then everything went back to normal.

But that was ten years ago, and things have changed.

Sam keeps his head in his hands as he sits at the end of Dean's bed, his shoulders shaking as he sobs hard. He's tired, deathly tired despite how much he's slept. He's stared, too scared to get the sleep he wants and too tired to sleep off this horrendous sick feeling which, he thinks, would be a lot less brutal were he not seeing things. The fever keeps him out of bed, takes the all too common fever dreams a step further, but the medication, the only thing that will put him to sleep, has an even more terrifying side effect, one he can actually remember. It's happened before, though, it happens every time he gets sick, but this time is a lot different. He has no one to help him through it this time. The only one willing, because god knows how hot and cold and stressed and overwhelmed John has been, is dead asleep here, one arm looking as though it's been inflated then smothered in charcoal and the other a sea of needles and wires. The only thing touchable when thinking about snapped ribs and coughing fits and brutal migraines is the left leg and, honestly, Sam can't find a way to do that without it being more awkward than it's worth. So no conversation and no hand holding this time, only a terrifying, borderline undead sight to look at and hope for some subtle, unconscious reassurance, which has yet to happen.

There's a faint knock on the door, and then a soft, "Sammy?"

He knows exactly who it is, but doesn't bother trying to fake sane enough to hold a conversation. He's good at faking, but not spectacular.

"Sammy, I think we should go."

He drops his hands and looks over at his father. "Are you crazy?" he demands, trying to scream but only emitting a few desperate sobs. "Dad, he's dying!"

"He's not dying," John argues. "He's sleeping."

"Why won't he wake u-up?"

"Because he's tired, they kept him up all night doing tests."

Sam pauses, breathing heavy.

"He's fine."

"How do you know?"

John shrugs. "I asked?"

Sam coughs a few times, his chest stinging as he does.

"Besides, do you really think he wants to see you like this?"

He puts his arm down, staring down at his zombie lying there.

"You're kind of a mess."

"I don't really care." His voice is soft, starting to grow apathetic. "And I don't care if he doesn't want to see it because I want to be here."

"But Sam-"

"I'm not leaving."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sarcasm overwhelms his tone. "Maybe because I don't wanna sit there in that room and worry about him until I go crazy?"

"We wouldn't be _leaving_ leaving, just-"

"We?" he asks, looking back over towards John. "I don't want anything to do with you right now."

John rolls his eyes. "Sam-"

"And don't even ask me why because you already know the answer."

"Sammy-"

"Why are you even here?" his voice has risen slightly. "I mean, it's not like you really care about him."

"Sam-"

"All you care about is telling him how he fucked up and how he can do better and he doesn't need that!"

"You already said that."

"Well I'm saying it again!" His voice breaks on the last syllable, and he puts his head back down in his hands.

"Sammy,"

"Never mind," he returns, and it's then that that completely shattered tone of voice gives him away. Something's wrong.

Something is _really_ wrong.

"I don't even know what I'm saying."

John watches him for a second, and notices that he's taken last night's band-aids off his arms and neglected to replace them. It's worse. It's still not deadly, but it's worse, and it could get there. "Sam," John takes his arms and pulls them from his face. Sam looks up at him with these big and morbidly desperate hazel eyes. "You need to talk to me."

Xx

I'm sorry~~~~~


	11. Chapter 11

Yep yep wrote you something.

XI

The sheets cling to the sticky palms of his hands as he lays there a groggy and confused mess. His vision is blurry, his thoughts lagging. He coughs a few times, and in the midst of it, the door opens. Dean looks up, and these red, puffy, dilated eyes stare back at him. There's a lot in them, a lot of negativity, of fear, hopelessness, of sheer insanity—but at the same time there's this overwhelming tinge of relief to them. That relief brings with it a smile, a faint, yet ever contagious smile.

"Hey," Dean starts, his speech just as slow and slurred as his thoughts.

Sam's smile widens, but as he starts to say something, his vocal chords fail to produce anything more than a breath.

Dean reaches out to him, his fingers laced between wires and tubes. "C'mere," he says, and Sam doesn't at all hesitate. He climbs up onto the mattress, throwing himself atop his brother like he's five years old. Dean inhales sharply, his entire being a sore and stiff mess, but as Sam starts to pull back, he takes a tight hold of him. There's a heavy, periodic jerk in Sam's shoulders, one that Dean recognizes almost immediately He hesitates in asking, but then proceeds with, "Are you happy crying or sad crying?"

Sam sits up, and as he looks down at Dean it's a dead tie. "I don't know anymore." He puts a hand over his mouth, averting his gaze downward. It's an action that's very one dimensional, one that comes without much cause.

A heavy feeling of concern washes over Dean. "What?" He asks.

Sam glances back up at him. "I think I'm crazy."

Dean shakes his head, fear starting to creep up on him. "You're not crazy." He says.

"I'm crazy," Sam argues. "I'm crazy and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Sammy-"

"I don't even know what I'm saying." His voice has fallen to little more than a breath, and with his cheeks drenched in warm saltwater he pushes himself down onto the floor.

"Sammy, what's going on?"

Sam pauses, and then screams bloody murder. "I just want you!"

With ever widening eyes, Dean takes a tight hold of his brother's arm, scared and confused as to what's going on.

"I just want you!" He wiggles and tugs at Dean's grasp. "Ple-ease!"

"You have me!" Dean returns desperately. "It's okay, you have me!"

The door is pushed, slammed, all the way open. "Sammy!" It's a scared, exhausted tone, and Sam falls out to his knees in response to it.

Dean pulls back with a gasp as he feels the tug of Sam's weight on him. Then he turns to find his father at the door, finding his expression of horror, confusion, and 'maybe he is crazy' mirrored. "What's going on?" he asks.

John breathlessly says he doesn't know, and then rushes over to pick Sam up off the floor. He's ripping at his arms—not scratching, but mercilessly tearing. His hands are already sticky and bright red, and he twists and borderline convulses to get out of his father's grasp. "Sam," John tries. "Sam, you need to calm down."

"I want him!" Sam shrieks, referring to his brother. "Dad, I want him!"

"You need to calm down."

"No!" Sam shrieks. "I need _him_!"

John briefly makes eye contact with Dean, who, through sheer terror, nods slightly.

"Just give me to him, please!"

"Sam-"

"I need him!"

"He's right here-"

"Dad, I need him!"

"Sam, he's right here!"

"Sammy, I'm right here!"

He pauses, looking downright vicious as his eyes meet Dean's.

Dean keeps his eyes from widening any more, forcing a desperate and breathy, "It's okay."

Sam watches him for a good twenty seconds, then coughs, and then crumples to the floor. He's not fully unconscious, just asleep. John lets go of him, his hands shaking.

"What just happened?" Dean asks, he too shaking. John starts to explain how many times this has happened in the past hour, but then he stops, catching sight of all the medical professionals who stand at the door, waiting to take Sam away.

Xx


	12. Chapter 12

This chapter is all Sam but if that's not your cup of tea, don't worry, more Dean next chapter.  
And if Sam is your cup of tea, then that's a yummy cup of tea.  
Enjoy-  
Xx

XII

As mentioned earlier, Dean got sick about ten years ago. It didn't turn out to be much, an exceptional flu with an exceptional fever and an exceptional amount of coughing, but it was enough to keep him in bed and out of action for a few days—the action of a nine year old, that is. So despite how common it was, it was enough to knock him down, and to a little Sam, seeing him knocked down was the worst thing he could have imagined. So after a greatly spurned flu shot he climbed into bed beside his brother and stayed there, babbling on in that nervous little kid voice and poking at Dean until he woke up. Dean didn't mind all that much, in fact, he wanted Sammy to be there, because not having to worry about Sammy made him feel that much better, that much more at ease. The mumbled anecdotes about what Sammy had seen in the ER put Dean to sleep, mostly because it was the same story every time, but partly too because it was the same tone, the same enthusiasm, and the same exact sweetness that brought him more peace of mind than anything. "Oh," Sammy would say. "You was sleeping. I tell you again." He said the same thing and told the story the same way for three days before Dean finally got tired of it, and told Sammy to draw him something.  
"Here," he handed Sammy the notepad on the bedside table along with the pen. "Tell me what's going on as you draw it."  
He did this eagerly for the remainder of the week, and every few hours he had a new drawing as complex and skillful as a kid that little could get. He put them all on the pillow, and every so often Dean would wake up and ask him about them. He'd tell enthusiastically, going on about every line and every dot until he found Dean asleep. "Oh," he'd say. "I tell you when you wake up."  
Sam's drawing pictures now too, but at fifteen, borderline insane, and kept in a soundproof glass room, they aren't really pictures at all, more like notes that he holds desperately up to the glass rather than placing gently on a pillow. He holds them up to whoever walks by, and they all pertain to one of two things. Some are about his brother, and the rest about his father. There's hardly any attention paid to them, most people trying as hard as they can to not give him what he wants. If anyone looks at him it's to make sure he's not tearing himself apart, not to read a horrendously scribbled note. If anyone talks to him, it's to tell him to fall asleep, not to tell him whether or not Dean is okay or whether or not John is with him. Sam isn't alone because they think he's crazy, but because they think some alone time, some heavy sedated and completely isolated alone time, will do him some good. He needs to sleep, but he needs to be watched, so they kept him and put him where both could be achieved, though it hasn't done all that much. He doesn't want to fall asleep, doesn't want to wake up somewhere he doesn't know again. He doesn't want to wake up sore and scared and strapped down by strangers who won't tell him what's going on again, so even though he's tired and fevered and feels like he could drop dead any second, he stays awake, because he doesn't know where he'll wake up.  
Before, he fell asleep in a waiting room. This after telling his father everything for reasons he can't recall. He explained how he feels crazy and how he doesn't know what to do anymore until all the sobbing and emotional wreckage became too much, and then he fell asleep, only to wake up to being unstrapped from a thick board and locked in this big glass room. He doesn't remember talking to his brother or breaking down at all—he just remembers falling asleep, and then waking up, which is more terrifying than anything he's ever imagined, or seen, for that matter.  
He looks at all the notes on the floor and sits down amongst them, realizing that, a, no one is going to talk to him, and, b, that he has no paper left. So he puts his head down on his knees and lets his mind drift, convinced that wherever he wakes up will be better than here.  
Xx

I hope this cleared some stuff up, but if it didn't then let me know and I'll work on it.  
Thanks as always!


	13. Chapter 13

Brace yourselves—a lot of drugs these next few chapters.  
Xx

XIII

"Dad," he starts, his voice faded and sleepy to a fault. It's near inaudible, so he sits up on his elbows and repeats a little louder, "Dad?"  
"Hmm?" John returns, half asleep in a thick and stiff plastic chair just right of the pitch dark windows.  
"Why'd they take Sam?"  
There's a pause. "We've been over this." He says. Dean claims he forgot, and John sighs heavy. "They just want him to be safe until the fever goes down."  
"Did they lock him up?"  
John shrugs. "In a sense."  
Dean exhales deep. "He's so sick." He puts a hand to his head. "I just want him to get better."  
"He feels the same about you."  
Dean drops his hand, becoming tangled in all the wires and tubes shoving their way in between his fingers.  
"You're worse than him."  
He doesn't answer, only lies back down.  
"With all your IVs and infections."  
"I don't wanna talk about it."  
"You're gonna have to if you wanna get better."  
Dean looks down, fighting the tears hard at the sight of this near black mess of a right arm.  
"It's gonna be a little hard to get you back up if you're so worried about him."  
"So I'm not allowed to worry?" He asks.  
"You're allowed to worry," John returns. "But not more than you do about yourself."  
Dean presses his lips together, then brushes away a few tears quickly.  
"He'll be fine." John says, his tiredness mixing with a bit of concern. "I'll take care of him."  
"You better," Dean's voice shakes like he's about to completely lose it. "'Cause I know what you've said to him, and done to him."  
"Dean-"  
"How could you do that?" He borders on sobbing at that point, and John glances at all the needles in his hands. "Out of everything, I mean-"  
"Get some sleep." John interrupts.  
"I don't want to-o."  
"Yes you do."  
"Dad, no,"  
"Dean," he argues. "Get some sleep."  
"Why?"  
"Because you're really medicated."  
He coughs slightly. "Am not."  
John gives him a skeptical look, to which Dean looks down at his hands. "Get some sleep," he repeats. "You'll feel better when you wake up."  
-

He wakes up to a heavy feeling on his right arm and looks down to find it covered in thick white plaster. It rests atop a pillow, one lying just below his ribcage. Dean lifts it slowly, dazed and confused and a little startled when he's honest with himself. He wonders when they put the pins in, when they covered it, and when they did the same to his leg. That was bad too, maybe not as bad, but bad enough to need another setting. He wonders when they did that, and then the door opens. Dean looks up, and a faint smile comes about him.  
"Hey," he starts, his voice barely there at all. "Sammy, when did they let you go?"  
Sam looks back at him with a questioning look. Physically, he looks better, the color having come back to his cheeks and the underlying look of sheer desperation having left. He looks steadier, his hands not shaking like they were and he looks more driven, like he doesn't regret getting out of bed. "Yesterday." He says, acting as if Dean is oblivious.  
Dean's expression falls. "What?" He asks. "They took you yesterday."  
Sam shakes his head. "They took me on Sunday."  
"Yeah," Dean says. "Yesterday."  
"Dean," he argues. "It's Wednesday."  
Dean doesn't answer, only stares at his little brother wondering what he could possibly be thinking. "Sam-"  
"You've been in and out of surgeries the past few days." He sounds surprisingly calm—he sounds okay. "It's okay that you don't remember."  
"But you-"  
"Don't worry about me." Sam interrupts, leaning over the footboard of Dean's bed to get closer to him. "I'm fine."  
Dean glances down at Sam's arms. "You're lying."  
He shakes his head smugly. "I'm fine."


	14. Chapter 14

I promised myself I wouldn't write about this because it's really personal, but I did anyway because you all are worth it.

Xx

XIV

No more hospitals.

No more surgeries.

No more doctors.

No more tests.

Just a creaky motel mattress. The room is a mess, seeing as no one has been there, and the sheets are wrinkled, seeing as no one has made the bed. He sighs heavily, dejectedly as John pushes him down onto it, and then looks up at him with big, faded green eyes.

"What?" John asks as he pulls Dean's heavy jacket off him.

Dean, cold and medicated to a fault, looks at the bed.

"What?" John repeats with a thicker annoyance to his tone. "I can't read your mind, Dean."

"I don't wanna go to sleep." He says, his words all strung together.

"Okay," He pulls off Dean's shoes—shoe—and pushes him to lie down. "Then don't, just-"

"No," he takes hold of John's hands. "I don't wanna lie in bed anymore."

John feels how cold Dean's skin is, and then notices how violently he shivers. "You need to." He argues. "Just for a little bit, until this wears off, okay?"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to."

"Dean-"

"I just wanna sit on the couch with Sam." He looks across the room, and there, of course, is Sam, completely unconscious before the television.

John too glances over. "He's asleep, Dean."

"I know, but-"

"He needs to sleep." Gently, John puts a hand on the side of Dean's face. His teeth are chattering—he's freezing. "You need to sleep too."

"No," he reaches up to move his father's hand, his fingers shaking like he's having some sort of episode. "I don't, dad."

John takes those fingers tight. "Okay," he says softly. "Just get under the covers."

"Why?"

"Because you're cold."

He can't help but agree, and tries as hard as he can to swing his legs up onto the mattress. "Dad," he whines, too drugged to keep his emotions properly in check. "It won't move." This comes out as a sob, which is out of the ordinary to say the least. "Help me!"

"Okay," he can't help but smile a little as he pulls Dean's legs up. "Just calm down."

He leans back against the headboard and holds the blankets close to his mouth, still shivering no matter how many are put on top of him. John sits beside him, keeping a hand just above Dean's left knee, waiting for him to stop shaking. Concern overwhelms him then, and he finds himself fearing the worst about this medicine and its effects. It has Dean a mess, so what is it doing to Sam considering they're on the same thing? He squeezes Dean gently and says he'll be right back, and then crosses the room where Sam sleeps soundly on the sofa, his breaths steady and his skin room temperature. He's perfectly fine while Dean, who's more than likely had more, is starting to reach the convulsing territory. "Hey," John calls out to him, seeing how uneasy he's starting to look. "You okay?"

Dean shakes his head, then starts to breathe heavier, faster. His expression grows distant, and his eyes dilate.

"Dean," John starts for him quickly, only to stop, knowing better than to touch him at this point. "Oh god," he wants to hold Dean still, but god knows he's seen enough of these episodes than to put a hand on him. All he can do is stand there and watch, wait for it to stop, see if it did any real damage. And that's exactly what he does. He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And-

He stops. He falls completely limp. John collapses to the mattress and takes a tight hold of him, squeezing him as tight as he can. Terror overwhelms him, and even though it could start back up at any second, he holds his beat up and more than likely overdosed son there in his arms, plagued with remorse and terror.

"So they tried to kill him?" Sam asks, his tired mind in a flurry upon hearing what he slept through.

"No," John returns, putting his arms out slightly to keep Sam from completely breaking down over this. "If it was an overdose, it was accidental, but he probably just couldn't handle all of it at once."

"All of what?"

"The drugs, Sam, what else?" There's an out of place hysteria present in John's tone, a contagious one that makes Sam want to, honestly, drop dead from fear. It's not a huge problem, Dean's episode, it could be said to be expected, in truth, but something about it struck John completely wrong. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's the stress.

Maybe it's because Dean hasn't woken up yet.

He's been lying there for almost an hour, unconscious, sprawled out like a rag doll. Sam pushes himself up and starts across the room to his brother.

"Sammy," John says near breathlessly. "Don't touch him."

Sam gets up on the bed and turns Dean over. "Hey," he says, shaking Dean's shoulders. "Hey, Dean, wake up."

"Sam!"

"This isn't funny anymore, Dean!"

"Get off him, Sam!"

Sam clings to him, holding for dear life it seems.

"Sammy-"

"It's okay," a faded and sleepy voice starts, putting a hand around Sam's shoulders. "I don't mind."

John takes a hold of Sam nonetheless and pulls him off.

"No," Dean argues. "Leave him."

"Dean-"

"I want him."

Xx

Aww yes, brotherly love.


	15. Chapter 15

Drugs and drugs and drugs and drugs, that's how you know the show is on a three week hiatus.

Xx

XV

There he stays, in that bed, in those arms, under those wrinkly sheets, so scared and so upset that he can't possibly leave. He has this idea that if he leaves he'll fall apart completely, lose his mind.  
Again.  
Dean doesn't mind Sam being there, feeling a bit scared and sentimental himself. It's mostly the drugs and their utter refusal to wear off, but he feels the exact same way. If Sam leaves, he might go crazy. So they both just lie there in this heavy and half conscious state, too awake to be fully asleep but too tired to be out of bed.  
The door opens, and Sam looks over at it. He's more awake, and sits up, sore from lying in one position all night. John studies him briefly, and even though he looks like an exhausted and puffy-eyed case of bed head, he looks better than he did. It's like something just clicked with him, like someone gave him a trigger word and poof, all the depression just melted away. It's strange to say the least, and at times, it's almost suspicious.  
"I swear," John says, putting the plastic bag down on the bed. "It's never just one of you getting sick."  
Sam smiles a little, but Dean doesn't, pain seeping through though his mind still lags. He wants to say something, but can't bring himself to, wanting more than anything just to fall back asleep and stay that way.  
"Hey," John reaches over and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, noticing how high he still is by his blown pupils. "I got you something."  
Dean rubs his eyes. "What?" He mutters, to which John hands him a bad of ice, already melting from the heavy heat in the room. He nods slightly, a quarter smile coming about him. "Thanks." He says, putting it atop his sternum.  
"Don't mention it, and you," he looks at Sam. "I got you a prescription."  
Sam pauses. "For what?" He asks.  
John hands him a bright orange bottle of chalky white tablets. "Happy pills."  
He smiles a little, looking over the bright orange bottle.  
"Can I trust you with them?"  
He laughs. "I think so."  
"Good," John starts across the room and Sam paws through the bag, seeing at least three more bottles. He glances over each of them.  
"They're yours." He says to Dean.  
"Of course they are." Dean returns, reaching around Sam for the bag. "I kinda just-"  
"No," Sam pushes his hand back. "I can't trust you."  
"You can't trust me with what?"  
"The drugs."  
"Why not?"  
Sam glances down, his hand still atop Dean's that was slithering around him. It's bruised, Dean's, his two smaller fingers taped together. Sam hadn't noticed until now that Dean is so much more of a mess than he thought. He stares at Dean's hand for a few more seconds and then looks over at the bag of ice on his chest. It's almost baffling how vivid the purplish-black of his bruises are even through a layer of clothing—a thin, white layer of clothing that hangs off of him lazily, but a layer nonetheless. Sam knows that it's bad. He knows it's horrible. He knows it's his fault.  
"Sammy?"  
He looks quickly up at his brother, blinking owlishly.  
"My eyes are up here."  
Sam nods, and after a brief moment of staring John starts again for the door. "Where are you going?" Sam asks.  
John opens the door. "Car." He returns simply, a word that makes both their expressions fall. "I'll be back."  
The door closes hard, and then it's quiet—silent.  
"Sam," Dean starts a good minute later, taking the bag from him and leafing through it. "What happened to you?"  
"What do you mean?"  
Dean gives him a look as if he's oblivious. "One second you're completely insane and the next-"  
"Fever," Sam interrupts. "I'm bad with them, you know that."  
"I know, but even before the fever you were-"  
"Let's not," his tone is fake, almost robotic. "It's not all that important."  
Dean sits fully up, seeing a tinge of fear in Sam's otherwise serene eyes. "I think it's important."  
"No," he smiles, looking as if he's been brainwashed. "It really isn't."  
Dean stares at him, almost appalled at how fake he is. "Sammy-"  
"Dean," he interrupts. "Dude, you really need to shave."  
He pauses. "What?"  
Sam starts in on something, but Dean pays him no attention, looking at his hands, and how he tosses the bottle of god knows what that he's holding between them. Deciding that's what's causing him to be so synthetic, Dean focuses on it, hoping to get a look at it good enough to find out what exactly it is. "Dean," Sam says, to which Dean looks up and blinks owlishly. "My eyes are up here."  
Xx

Oh, Sammy


	16. Chapter 16

This chapter is long and crazy and heavily edited and I almost just lost it completely (thanks, undo!)

Enjoy if you want, I mean, I'm not here to tell you what to do.

xx

XVI

Stubble clears awkwardly from his jaw line in unskillful and shaky swipes, revealing dark, shocking bruises all about it. It's like five o clock shadow, only purple and red, swollen in places. He puts a hand up to where it's darkest, and then, as he pulls back, half expects to find ink on his fingertips with how little it hurts. "Sam," he calls, his words slightly unsteady as he opens the rusty-hinged door. "Sammy?"

"Nope," a voice – John's voice – starts from the door. "Just me."

His eyes widen slightly with a sudden, unnecessary fear. "Where's Sam?" he asks.

"Better question," John returns, surveying Dean up and down a few times. "Why are you standing?"

"Dad-"

"Even better, _how_ are you standing?"

Dean shrugs nervously. "Magic, I guess." He says. "Now where's Sam?"

"You don't look all that magical." John takes the razor from Dean's hand and takes hold of his chin, finishing the job much to Dean's dismay. "Just a little awkward."

Dean tries to pull back, breathing in slow to calm the nerves that John effortlessly provokes.

"Your lungs sound good, you know that?" He hands Dean the razor. "I guess you're all better."

"I guess so," Dean starts to feel the bruises as he towels off his chin, and then decides that this heavy narcotic dose is starting to come to a close. "Aside from you having to-"

"Wait," John takes back a hold of Dean's chin, turning him slightly.

"What?"

"You missed a spot."

"Yeah, my hands kinda don't work."

"Stop talking." He takes the disposable blade from the fake ceramic countertop. "You'll get a cut."

"I don't think it'll make a-" he breathes in sharply, abruptly.

"Told you."

A heavy, horrendous feeling washes over him, like all his muscles contracting at once. "No," he grips the counter tight. "It's not that, it's-"

"Sit down."

He leans back against the wall, clumsily getting down onto the floor.

"I didn't mean here, but I guess that's fine."

He closes his eyes tight and looks down, whimpering in a soft, out of character way. Usually so strong and emotionless around his father – around everyone – this abrupt bout of agony has him completely stripped. Worn down, overwhelmed, and almost completely exposed, he's never felt so different.

"C'mere," John takes him gently from the linoleum, lifting him as though he's weightless. "Let's go lie down."

Dean puts a hand over his face, his near colorless cheeks turning bright red with embarrassment.

"Okay," John puts him down on the sofa, the mass of dead weight in reality too much to carry all the way across the room no matter how small a distance it is. "You're okay."

He emits a brief sob then moves his left hand to cover his mouth.

"Dean," John puts a hand on his shoulder, only to pull back as Dean gasps heavy. "Dean," he repeats. "You need to calm down."

He holds his breath, the two free fingers of his right hand shaking horrendously.

"Breathe, Dean."

Ten or so seconds pass, and then he drops his hand, exhaling all that pain and all that fear deep and inhaling a certain sweetness, a certain vulnerability. "Oh my god," he breathes, lying back.

John awkwardly sits down. "What happened?"

Dean shakes his head. "I dunno," he sounds as though he's run a marathon, and looks as though he's been out in the sun for days. "Everything just…" he trails off. "I'm sorry."

John smiles a little, taking in Dean's sudden sweetness. "Don't be." He says. "You have a few excuses."

Dean nods slightly and drapes an arm over his middle. "I don't want them anymore."

John studies Dean's chest, seeing how dark the bruises are through the holes in his shirt.

"Like, at first they weren't that big a deal, but down," he uncomfortably fidgets, feeling those heavy eyes staring hard. "Now I just want it to be over."

"What do you want to be over?" John asks, averting his gaze to Dean's tired eyes.

"This whole recovery process," he says. "This whole being miserable, and being nineteen, and…" he pauses. "I just wanna get better, get back to normal."

"Well, you won't be nineteen for that much longer, but as for getting better," John notes those heavy bruises on Dean's jaw line. "I think you've still got a while to go."

Dean glances over at him. "Where'd your good mood go?" he asks, his eyes big and sad like he's a little kid.

John gently brushes Dean's hair back, overwhelmed with more guilt and remorse towards him than he thought possible as Dean involuntarily pulls back with a touch of fear in those sad but sugary sweet green eyes. He shrugs slightly, noticing that Dean still has a faint temperature. "How'd you get so sick?" he asks, to which Dean shrugs back. It's like a mirror to John, a younger, sicker mirror, but a mirror nonetheless.

"Too much stress, I guess."

He nods a little, thinking back to the day all of this happened, and how almost six hours after Dean left to get his brother, the door opened.

"Thanks for getting me." A shivering Sam said, sarcasm dripping from his words as he threw his book bag onto the floor. "It's not snowing or ten miles away or anything."

John glanced up, surprised to say the least as he found only one of his boys there. "Where's your brother?" he asked, watching as Sam's drenched jacket slid carelessly off his shoulders onto the carpet.

"You tell me." Sam returned, his hands puffy and bright red from the freezing cold. "He never showed."

John paused, and while a hundred different scenarios came to mind, the truth for some reason didn't. "How'd you get here?"

"How do you think?" Sam asked. "I walked."

"Don't talk back to me, Sam." He reached for the phone and dialed Dean's number. "It's not that far."

"It's six degrees, dad!"

"Man up, Sammy."

He rolled his eyes and sighed heavy in that exasperated teen way. "I can't believe you guys!" He stormed off to the washroom, slamming and locking the door. Now, as John thinks back on it, he knows exactly what Sam was doing.

A few more rings and then a lazy, slurred voice picked up the phone, asking a faded and clearly out of sorts, "Hello?"

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked, his voice raised slightly.

Dean paused. "Uh-"

"You were supposed to get your brother!"

He coughed slightly. "I know."

"Then why didn't you?" John demanded. "What was so important that you couldn't get him?"

"Uhm," Dean paused again. "Something came up."

"You're high." John said.

"No," Dean tried. "I'm not high, I-"

"I think you're high."

"I'm not high," he repeated. "I'm-"

"You're on something!"

"No!" he argued. "I'm not on anything, I just-"

"Bullshit, you're not on anything, Dean!"

"I'm not!" he was desperate, understandably, borderline sobbing to get his point across. "Just listen to me!"

"I'm not taking any of your excuses, Dean!"

"Just listen to me for, like, ten seconds."

"Dean, I'm not taking-"

"Listen to me!"

John paused, noticing that genuine fear in Dean's voice.

"I need you to listen to me, dad."

"I'm listening."

There was a muffled sob on the other end of the line, one that conveyed little more than sheer terror.

His tone lightened slightly. "Dean?"

"I have no idea what's going on."

John put a hand over his face. "Dean-"

"I just woke up and people were tugging and pulling and squeezing, but I couldn't feel any of it, and I wanted to call, but they wouldn't let me move, they just kept holding me down."

He paused to compute the long and slightly slurred string of words Dean clearly forced. "Who were they?" John asked.

Dean coughed hard for a few seconds, and then exhaled heavy. The sound was raspy, like tissue paper. "Doctors," he said.

"What?" John demanded. "Why?"

"I dunno," Dean groaned. "But they want you here."

"What happened?"

"Something with the car, but-"

"My car?" John yells. "Dean, what did you do to my car?"

He audibly sobbed. "I don't know."

"I'm gonna kill you if you fucked up my car!"

"I'm sorry," he tried. "Dad-"

John slammed the phone down and left without a word.

He ruffles Dean's short hair gently, then moves that hand down to his shoulder. "If you're up for it." He says. "I'd like to show you something."

Xx

((flashbacks, guys))


	17. Chapter 17

Flashbacks flashbacks flashbacks

Xx

XVII

John manages to pull him out of the room, holding onto him with one hand as he gestures with the other towards this stunning black car in a parking space about three floors below them—his stunning black car three floors below them. It shines bright in the winter sun, the replaced right doors and headlights near blinding. "Oh my god," Dean breathes, his eyes huge. "How did you...?" "The damage was never that bad." He says. "You just got the short end of the stick, I guess." Dean nods. "I guess." "The right was pretty bad, though." John lets go of him, and Dean holds tight onto the doorframe to keep from crumpling to the pavement. "I think that's where you hit." He looks at the passenger door, and then what he's blocked out starts to seep through and come back to him. "Nineteen" he came around to an unfamiliar voice, and looked up to a blurry and unfamiliar face looking over the ID he had in his pocket. "He's nineteen, he can consent." The first thing he noticed was that his head was killing him, but as he tried to put a hand up to it, he noticed that he couldn't move. Fear shot through him, and as he looked down to see what it was, multiple pairs of hands held him back down hard. "Don't move," a voice says. "What's going on?" He coughed as he started to speak, and even though he couldn't feel anything, he twitched as scissors started to cut through his clothes.

"You're okay." The same voice continued. "Just relax and try to hold still." "What's going on?" He repeated, seeing bright amber lights overhead through blurred vision. No one answered directly, and he wondered to himself if he was saying anything at all.

"Yeah, open fibula on the right, here." A chorus of faint gasps followed, and then all attention averted to his lower half. He wanted to look, but he was restrained at that point, held down tight against something thick and plastic that he held onto with all the fingers that would move. All that they focused their attention on was numb, but the reactions made him feel it, in a sense, seeing as he could only imagine what all they were seeing, even if he couldn't quite understand all their rushed and hysteric speech.

"Swelling around the knee." One unfamiliar voice said.

"Fever of 102." Said another.

"Open radial and ulnar on the right."

"Discoloration around the ribcage."

"Some scrapes and bruises along the jaw line."

"A few fingers."

"Dilated pupils."

"Irregular heart rate."

"Splint that, wait for the x ray results."

"It's completely out. How do you expect me to splint it?"

"Figure something out."

A few hands took tight hold of his leg, and Dean gasped at how the pain started to come through. He gripped the plastic tight, whimpering softly as everything started to hurt at once. He had no sense of pride or shame, both of them literally beaten out of him by the impact of his weight against a heavy metal door.

"It'll be over soon." A soft voice said, putting a hand on his shoulder as more hands took the rest of him. "Just a few more minutes, okay?"

He closed his eyes tight, and then a few sobs surfaced. What felt like a long silence fell about, and then that same comforting voice continued with, "You want us to give you something?"

Dean looked up, squinting at those heavy lights. "Like what?" He asked, his words shaking. "I don't wanna be awake, I just..." He trailed off, breathless as they pulled and squeezed and tugged.

"We can't put you to sleep." They said. "But you probably won't feel anything for a while."

"Probably?" He asked.

"You won't feel anything."

Quickly, Dean nodded, turning his left hand up eagerly to get a shot of relief, of heaven.

"Okay," this still blurry figure stuck a thicker than expected needle into his arm, being much more aggressive than he'd imagined. Dean gasped a bit, the metal tearing through already swollen and bruised flesh. "You'll start to feel it in about ninety seconds. Just try and relax until then."

He let out a long breath and closed his eyes, so sore and dizzy without the drugs' effects that he had no idea how out of it he'd feel on them. Hands gently took hold of his near dead right arm, and while it hurt horrendously, all he could focus on was the comment that followed.

"There's glass all over."

His deep breath fled, and Dean looked up quickly. 'The car,' he thought. 'Oh my god, the car.'

Another voice chimed in. "That's probably the passenger window."

Dean could deal with a broken window. That wasn't too much.

"But those fractures are all door."

His heart skipped briefly.

"No," the same voice that had been talking to him before started.

"A door couldn't do that."

"Explain that to the huge dent when they took it off."

Dean started to fully panic, to shake, to break down completely with fear and stress and pain and pray desperately for mercy, but then he realized something—

It had been ninety seconds.

He was numb, gone, and while that high bliss is still a blur, what happened before it isn't, and as Dean stands there now and looks at this stunning car and thinks about how hard he worried himself, he can't help but feel a little of that worry. It starts to seep through, and the more he reads into it, the worse it gets until he can't take it. "Dad," he slowly puts a hand to his mouth, overwhelmingly sick out of nowhere. "Dad, I need to-"

John glances over at him, knowing exactly what's wrong by that colorless skin and those huge eyes. He pushes the door to the room open and pushes Dean inside, then he follows, leads Dean all the way to the washroom floor, and then leaves him there. Dean wants to apologize, but can barely breathe, let alone talk. "Just let me know when you..." John trails off, watching as Dean lies down on the floor, burying his face in the bend of his left arm. "Let me know when you wanna get up." He nods, the cold linoleum comforting against his sore chest. "If you wanna get up."

Xx

i know it's bad now, but it'll pick back up in the next few chapters. Don't lose hope!


	18. Chapter 18

This chapter is really short, but it's really important.  
Enjoy!  
Xx

XVIII

"Dean," a loud whisper starts. Hands shake his arm gently, breaking through that thin layer of unconsciousness that's come over him. "Dean, wake up."  
He rubs his eyes and turns over lazily, seeing a five foot tall figure to the right of his bed. "Sammy?" He questions, his voice faded and sleepy.  
"Dean, you need to get up."  
"I'm up," he groans, tugging the covers up over his bare shoulders nonetheless. "What is it?"  
Sam turns on the light, and as he does, Dean squints and puts a hand over his eyes.  
"You can't just talk to me?" He asks, reaching for the lamp with his mostly encased and swollen right hand.  
"No," Sam takes his hand desperately. "Just listen to me, Dean."  
"Just turn off the light, Sam."  
Sam squeezes his hand tight. "Dean, please-"  
"Sam!" Dean pushes him back hard, holding his sore mess of a right hand close to his chest. "God, Sam! You can't do that!"  
"I'm sorry, but-"  
"But what, Sam?!" He borders on yelling, not angry, necessarily, but tired and sore and stressed to a fault. "What's so important that you have to wake me up right now?!"  
He pauses, his hands shaking out of sheer terror. "I'm-"  
"I know you're sorry!" Dean snaps. "Just tell me what you were gonna tell me!"  
"It's..." Sam pauses again. "If you're so tired, then-"  
"Just tell me, Sam!"  
He shakes his head slightly. "It's not that important." He says sheepishly, backing away towards the open washroom door. "I'll tell you tomorrow."  
"No, Sam! If it's so important-"  
He slams and locks the door hard behind him, knowing that Dean is hurting, and won't get up to get him.  
"God dammit, Sam!" He switches off the light and turns over, pulling the sheets up over him. "You're so annoying!"

Xx

Brace yourselves, chapter 19 is next.


	19. Chapter 19

This was my original ending. I like it much better, and I hope you do too.

XIX

Rubbing his eyes, he glances over at the clock, his vision hazy and his entire body a heavy, sore mess. He notes the time, 12:19 AM, and stares at the glowing red letters for a good ten seconds. He feels a heaviness in his chest, one that brings with it this dull aching. It's not that of fractured ribs, it's worse than that, a lot worse, similar to fractured ribs, but a lot heavier, as there's this weighty feeling of dread mixed in. Strange, he briefly thinks, that nothing has prompted it. He looks at the clock, 12:19 AM, and then decides that six hours in between narcotic doses is enough and pushes off the sheets. Getting up hurts to say the least, but he manages, and somehow drags himself lazily across the room to the half open washroom door. It's creaky as he pushes it open, the hinges rusted and the yellowing white paint peeling. He switches on the light, and finds the fake ceramic counter completely empty. The bright orange bottles, _his_ bright orange bottles, are gone, as are Sam's. The razor he used earlier is gone too, just gone. He looks on the floor—nothing. He pulls open the medicine cabinet—nothing. Drawers, nothing, cabinets under the sink, nothing. There's nothing anywhere, just a faded white sink and a smudged mirror with his near zombified reflection. Dean, confused, turns around and looks back into the bedroom. "Sam?" He questions in a dull, just woken up tone. He doesn't remember Sam getting back, their entire conversation from earlier a blur. Dean assumes that he isn't home, seeing as he doesn't get an answer in return. "Dad?" Again, no answer. He's gone. Where'd he go? Where did they both go? It's like they left and took everything with them, everything except him. "Sammy?" He asks a little louder.  
SLAM!  
He jumps a little, then turns quickly towards the shower, where the sound of what's likely a falling soap bottle came from. The curtain sways a little. "Sammy?" He repeats. "Is that you?" Dean hesitantly reaches for the shower curtain, feeling that its dark and thick plastic texture is sticky with something. An immediate and morbid thought comes to mind, but he shakes it, pulling the curtain slowly open. "Please tell me this is some teenage boy thing and not..." He trails off, his mind blanking completely at the mass amounts of bright red trickling down the linoleum. His eyes widen slightly. "Sammy?" He asks breathlessly. "What did you do?"  
Sam lies there in the tub, his fingertips peeking out from under the sleeves of Dean's jacket. His knees are bent slightly, and his eyes are faded and glassy, giving off the indication that all of the bright orange bottles on the counter are gone because he took them, and took what was in them.  
"Sam," Dean's hands shake as he awkwardly gets down on the floor and puts them onto his brother. "Sam, you need to talk to me, let me know if I'm actually awake right now." Dean pulls down the zipper of his jacket, and even though it's black and he can't see exactly, he knows that it too is covered in bright red. "Sammy, you need to-"  
He coughs hard, and up onto Dean comes a wave of that same, sticky fluid.  
"Sam," there's a full tinge of panic to his voice. "Sam, talk to me."  
He returns with some slurred mess, putting a hand on Dean's.  
"What?" He asks pulling his jacket off quickly. "Oh my god." There's the razor's explanation. "Oh my god, you didn't."  
Sam says something again, something that Dean still can't make out.  
"I can't understand, Sammy, I-"  
Sam reaches over and slowly hands Dean the phone he's been holding. Dean takes it, immune to the thick and borderline repulsive stickiness. Dean looks, and Sam is almost an hour into a conversation.  
"Who were you talking to?" Dean asks, in too much of a flurry to recognize the number. Sam pushes the phone closer to him, and with his vocal chords coated in heavy panic, Dean takes it and holds it to his ear. "Hello?" He asks, barely able to keep it in place with how his hand shakes.  
"Dean!"  
He sighs in a bit of relief. "Dad-"  
"What's going on?"  
He looks back at his brother lying in the shower, and when he looks hard enough at Sam's arms, he can see just how bad it is, just how deep it is. "Oh my god," he's seen worse, a lot worse, but there's something about this that strikes him completely wrong, and terrifies him to the point where he knows that keeping his composure isn't much of an option. "Uh-"  
"Dean!"  
He breathes in a shaky though deep breath, trying to prolong faking cool for just a second more. "Dad, where are you?"  
"Tell me what's going on!"  
"Where are you?" He borders on sobbing, sure that he's never felt this kind of fear despite all he's grown up seeing.  
"Dean!"  
"Dad, get here!" He's half sobbing, half screaming, and Sam, now feeling a heavy tinge of guilt, takes his hand tight. He gasps, Sam's grip on the plaster encased mess deathly tight.  
"Dean-"  
"I need you!"  
"Dean, I can't understand you."  
"Dad, no-"  
"You're breaking up, I-"  
"Dad-"  
The line drops, and after a few moments of near shrieking into the phone, Dean throws it to the floor.

"Sam," he says, taking a makeshift hold of his brother's shoulders. "Sam, you need to..." he looks for a way to climb into the shower, but can't seem to manage it no matter his approach. "You need to talk to me."

Sam is completely silent, but manages to take hold of his brother's hand.

"Don't move." Dean says. "Just talk, just-"

"Dean..." Sam interrupts. "Lis..listen..."

"Okay," he returns. the terror taking on a whole new level upon hearing Sam's slurred voice. "I'm listening."

Sam pauses for a good moment, simply looking at the hand he holds in his.

"Sam?"

He looks up, his skin nearly translucent he's gone so pale. He breathes in slowly and manages something a little less than a half smile. "Happy birthday."

xx

More to come soon.

-unsuave


End file.
